


Imogen

by OfficiallyWrong



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Gen, Maryland, Murder, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Police Procedural, Pre-The X-Files: I Want To Believe (2008), Pre-X-Files Revival, Rape/Non-con Elements, Serial Killers, Sexual Politics, Small Towns, Supernatural Elements, X-Files OctoberFicFest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-21 08:22:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21071852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfficiallyWrong/pseuds/OfficiallyWrong
Summary: Mulder and Scully investigate a series of murders in a small island community on the coast of Maryland which Mulder believes to be the work of a siren.*Stand-alone episode set pre-"closure"*





	Imogen

**Author's Note:**

> A reflection on Barbara Creed's "The Monstrous Feminine" in practice
> 
> If you don’t know what that is, no worries! You don’t need to know to read. :)
> 
> This X-File takes some liberties with canon but its effects are minor. 
> 
> Some of the people and locations of this story are fictional and
> 
> are for entertainment and scholarship only.
> 
> **Trigger Warning: **
> 
> ****
> 
> ****
> 
> RATED M for network television-style mature violence
> 
> ****
> 
> Disclaimer:
> 
> ****
> 
> _The X-Files (1993-) _© Chris Carter
> 
> ****

**Part One: By the Sea **

She had gotten them red this time. Red was not normally her color. It wasn’t anyone’s color in town, but least of all hers. Lacy told her to get them, practically groveled for it. It didn’t make sense why she cared so much. Lacy always had the last say in things. Always “making suggestions.” She couldn’t help it. It was who she was. She said red brought out a person’s wild side, their passion. It would help “scare away a husband” which in their dialect meant the opposite of what it sounded like. Lacy was artsy, so she thought about things that way. It was why so many of the girls liked her, why they took all of her suggestions. So, it was decided that red would be the color, not only for her, but for all the girls for that week.

Emma wiggled her toes deep into the sand, able to see the nail polish even at dusk. She flexed them, pointed them, buried them, pulled them to the surface. Her lips pursed and finally curved into a frown. More tourists had been coming from the mainland, and the town was getting in a huff about it. The residents were leaving faster than ever, going off to find opportunities in the city as the sustainability of their little villages dwindled. Things were changing. Nothing could be done about it. It was just the way of things. Lacy’s red nails were only the beginning. She inhaled the salty ocean air, feeling the light breeze pick up her brown curls. There was still a purple aura around the sea bleeding into the sky. She looked back at her toes.

“Hate’m,” a man said as he appeared behind her, his arms full of fire wood. “Make you look like a harlot.”

She rolled her eyes. “Get off.”

Of course, again, when he said that he meant the opposite. What the man intended to claim was ‘I like them. I think they are very classy.’ Not that anyone from the mainland would know.

The man came around her, preparing the fire. “Lacy’s idea?” he asked.

Emma sulked.

“She’s a real beauty queen,” he said, squatting over the pit. “She likes yups so much she oughtta just move to Crisfield. Keep outta here.”

A light sparked as he dropped a match into the pit, catching the wood planks aflame.

She stuffed her head between her knees, puffing out her cheeks. “She’ll just drop right outta school for it.”

“You go on and wear whatever you want, Emma. You ain’t got the brains to choose your own damn colors, none.” He sat back down on the blanket beside her. “Why you let her all up in your business anyway?”

“Says they’re for scarin’ away a man.”

“What do you need to do that for?”

Emma wrapped herself in the tan sweater her grandmother knitted for her that winter. “I’m almost to college, Joe.”

“Well, I’m in college, and there weren’t no decent fellows there,” Joe huffed. “And my little sister ain’t pretty none, anyhow. She’ll just settle for a low-ball.”

Leaning in, he gave her an innocent peck on the cheek.

“You’re makin’ me blush,” Emma beamed as she wiped her cheek to her shoulder. “Jesus Mary. I’m like a hot plate.”

“Don’t worry about Lacy. She’ll get her _prince charming. _I’m sure of it. She’ll take all of them for herself and leave none wanting.”

“She progs enough.”

Emma smiled quietly. She was so grateful to have Joe home. Everything had been so lonely without him there. She would never say, but the real reason Lacy wanted her to find a husband was because she was genuinely concerned. The only young man Emma ever really went about with was her brother, who was now planning on joining the Military to get funding for his degree at John Hopkins. She was worried he would change, being away from the island for that long. But he came back the same, just as much of himself as he ever was. Emma did not want to go to college. She would rather work locally at the markets, helping the crabbers when she could by giving them fresh food and water upon their return. That was the life she dreamt for herself, the only life she really knew. Her father had wanted her to go to college. To see the world. There was no point, she thought. This island was her world. She liked it that way. She didn’t want it to die off. And her father was dead now anyhow. It was only her and Joe. And when Joe found a girl, it would be only her.

Emma spoke up. “You come home awful late nowadays.”

“Who, me?”

“Past sunrise, some nights.”

He leaned back. “You’ve been waiting?”

“No, but I hear when you get in,” Emma said. Her shoulders lifted to her ears. “You can tell me. You found someone, didn’t you?”

Joe looked startled. “Found somebody on the island don’t already know me?”

“Why else come back so late?”

“Ah,” sweeping back his thick brown bangs. “I didn’t wanna bother you about it, but I know it’d eventually come out. I just been kinda...showin’ up there.”

“Showin’ up where?”

“The docks,” he explained. “Middle of the night. Just showin’ up there. Dawn, sometimes. Don’t know how. No reason why. Probably a head-cold.”

“Head cold’s the most believable thing, Joe,” Emma soured.

“It’s the truth.”

“You got your whole life to go-a lyin’,” she shrugged, but was smiling beneath her eyes.

“Emmi, I swear I—”

He sat up, then. Emma could tell he was distracted by something, the way he stared out into the water.

Suddenly, she too sat up. “Oh, I got cakes! Oh...” She poked him. “Joe?”

He snapped back. “Hm?”

“I left the cakes at the house,” she explained, feeling even more embarrassed. “Stay by the fire till I get’m?”

“I’ll go with you—” he started, almost anxiously.

“But...someone’s gotta watch the fire,” she bleated. “I’ll only be a minute.”

She was gone before he could say anything more.

Joe didn’t want her to worry, not about the late nights, or about what went on in them. He looked out at the sea, the sky getting darker as the minutes passed. Stars glinted in the inky night. A light whistle of the wind danced through his ears. They were formed almost like a melody, one he could hum if he really put his mind to it. His eyes glazed across the sea, the waves calming to him. The tide was out, the beam of Solomon's Lump Lighthouse flashing across the vista, searching for boats. There was a white halo in the distance, creeping forward over the water. He looked at his feet. A fog was moving inland as well. Soon there would be no stars. Maybe they should go in? He stood, swearing he could hear the whistling wind get louder, the melody clearer. Only this time, there were words. Not words he understood, but words. The hairs on his legs rose. The voice sounded like nothing of this world, too beautiful for the mind to fabricate.

And he was captured by its spell.

Emma peered over the grass, no longer seeing the glow of the fire. Her bag in hand, she hiked across the sand, calling out to her brother.

“Joe?”

She was met with the dark beach waves, no light, but the blanket still lay by a completely doused fire. The sand was damp. It couldn’t’ve rained, could it? Leading from their site to the sea were footprints, the pattern of a combat boot was imprinted in the sand. She dropped the cakes, sprinting out to the sea. She called, she screamed, but there was no answer. She stared out in horror, following the footprints straight into the water, fading as white caps lapped against the shore. The ocean was calm, the sky so clear, her cries echoed into it like a never-ending cavern, the stars twinkling over her head.

“Joe!!”

**THE X-FILES**

**[The Truth is Out There]**

“You like crab, Scully?”

It was like this every morning. He never came out and said what he meant. He always had to lead her in somehow. _Put on your cowboy boots, Scully. What do you know about turnips, Scully? You ever dream about owning a pet mongoose, Scully? _And Dana was so used to being addressed by her last name at this point, she was even doing it in her own mind.

“Impartial,” she finally said.

“Crisfield, Maryland. Crab capital of the world located off the Delmarva Peninsula. The place is so sea-worthy they say the town was built on oyster shells.”

Scully lifted her brows high. She was always Scully at work. It made things easier. “Yes, I’m aware. There’s no ‘they-say’ about it. Their seafood industry was so successful men dumped the shells and soot into plots of marshland around the area creating a whole new isthmus where the downtown stands today. They’ve been concerned about flooding in recent years due to extreme temperature changes.”

“That’s not all the locals are concerned about—”

He made his way to the projector, preparing his usual overzealous presentation which he no doubt spent all night preparing. Mulder’s face hardly ever moved, so he tended to express himself through other means. He was always Mulder, on and off the clock. Which made sense, Scully thought, not only because he hated his first name, but also because he never stopped working. 

The first slide was of a dead body. Original.

“This is Earl Collins, age thirty-eight, Caucasian male, found dead in his car ten miles outside of Crisfield. The girl who found him said she saw him convulsing and foaming at the mouth as though he were having some kind of seizure. She tried to get in the car to help him, but it was locked from the inside. The man showed a significant loss of water in the blood which they believed to be due to osmotic pressure.”

Scully blinked. “He drowned?”

“It would appear so.”

Next slide. Another dead body. The surprises just kept coming.

“Nathan Miller, age twenty-four, another Caucasian male, died twenty miles from the shore of the same city. There was no witness, but a similar cause of death was confirmed. Only this time they did an autopsy.”

The next image was something different. The man’s lungs and stomach area were crawling with small blue crabs. Scully had seen so many strange things in her time with the FBI that this did not faze her, only sparked her curiosity.

“Talk about waking up crabby, eh Scully?” Mulder was very proud of himself.

“Well, these men most definitely drowned,” she told her partner. “Sea life will devour any carcass submerged in water for too long, which is clearly what happened here.”

“If the body was submerged at all,” Mulder explained. “The organs all show obvious signs of drowning, but according to the report, the rate of decay doesn’t match the cause of death. In fact, the skin and muscular structures are decomposing faster than a drowning victim should if preserved in cold salt water. If the bodies were submerged, there would have to be some kind of evidence on the epithelial tissue, which they haven’t been able to find. And if they weren’t, then how did the crabs get in there?”

“So, you think, what? They drowned on land somehow?”

“It gets better,” Mulder said, moving to the next slide. “There have been five similar cases, all adult males between the ages seventeen and forty-five. Turns out they’re all from the same place.”

Scully picked up the case file, flipping through the pages. “Smith Island.”

“Ten miles off the coast of Crisfield. Only thing is, these other cases were never reported. The deaths happened too close to the water, so people just assumed they washed up on shore. And every one of them were reported missing exactly three days before their bodies turned up.”

“It could be a timely disease,” Scully suggested. “Some sort of bacteria or toxin native to the area causing the strange biological reaction. If that’s the case, the locals could be carrying it to the mainland.”

“That’s a theory.” But Mulder’s tone did not suggest he believed it. 

“Mulder,” Scully’s face narrowed. “Just what exactly is your interest in this case?”

He looked at her with boyish innocence. “Sea creatures crawling out of a depleted lung not interesting enough for you, Scully?” 

Her eyes were steel. “If you tell me you’re looking for the crab people, I will hand Skinner my resignation right now.” 

Mulder’s lips, which were usually pouted, tweaked upward. “Not today,” he replied. “This is much more exciting. The reported cases happened inland, but there’d been no reports from the island itself. That is until the latest victim, a nineteen-year-old kid named Joseph Hartigan, was found dead on the island shoreline in a similar condition last night. With some...interesting new developments.”

The next image did surprise Scully in a new way. This time her head even tilted a bit. Mulder would definitely make some sort of comment about that later.

“So, a man dies on the shore of a coastal town with only his organs preserved by the salt water, internally infested with coruscations and found in a severe state of epididymal hypertension with no explanation—” Her eyes widened. “Mulder.”

“He died a very happy man.” 

She turned to look at him. “That’s why you wanted this case?”

“Well, considering the nature of the deaths, I say it definitely counts as an X-File.”

“No arguments here.” She walked to his side as the two examined the uncomfortable image. “What about the others? Have there been any other signs of excess blood in those regions?”

“Yes, actually. But it wasn’t consistent with all the victims.”

“But you think it’s significant.”

Mulder gave her a little shrug, clearly enjoying the game he was playing. Seven years working together, she knew when he was brewing a theory. Typically, one of supernatural origin. Or maybe he was just bored and liked to throw things into the mix to keep things interesting: not that their job was ever boring by any standard. He was an extremely tall man, Fox Mulder, and appeared even taller when standing next to Scully. However, as much as his height fooled others, it never fooled her. Deep down, Mulder was nothing but a big doofy child. Naturally, he couldn’t resist the urge to make a dick joke. Still, there was something about this particular case that had him giddy, nearly jumping in his size-sixteen Oxfords. Despite herself, Scully found that excitement infectious. It was one of the reasons that after all this time, after all she had been through, she still showed up to work.

“So,” she crossed her arms looking up at him. “What do you think it is, Mulder?”

He leaned down toward her, his face expressionless and hard like a stone. “Crab people,” he croaked before cracking a smirk.

Their position in the FBI took Mulder and Scully many different places around the country, mostly to the rural countryside or in the back alleys of city streets. Old dilapidated houses, dark woody forests, they had seen it all. However, this was one of the few times a case brought them out to an island, across the ocean. They met the Captain of their charter down by the Crisfield dock. It was a charming town, if not a bit shabbier than the advertisements suggested. Their transport was an algae-covered crab boat, an old sailor manning it with only one assistant. The air was thick with the smell of freshly caught oysters and shellfish. They rode over the bumpy waves, their bodies misted by the sea.

“There’s the annual crab derby, that usually brings a horde’a tourists!” the old Captain loudly explained to Mulder, who as usual was a little too invested in the conversation. The two were forced to shout over the motor, which clanked every time it went over a cap. “The island there’s a historical monument in itself, you know. A dyin’ species.”

“Why do you say that?” Scully asked, poking her head in.

“Ain’t you from the newspaper?” he asked. “I assumed from the getup.”

Mulder pulled out his badge. “We’re investigating a homicide,” he said.

“_Possible _homicide.”

He waddled over to get a closer look at the badge. “Well, shoot me. You live out at sea too long you forget what city folks look like. We been gettin’ so much press out here lately, I just went and assumed.” He pulled over his brown fishing cap.

“What’s so special about Smith Island?” 

“Just...when you get there, don’t try too hard to understand what folk’s’re sayin’ when you’re not talkin’ directly at’m. You won’t be able to.” The crusty man worked as he continued to talk. “Trust me, I been livin there ten years and I still ain’t got the foggiest. But they’re nice enough so they won’t talk around ya. They keep their jargon to themselves so’s not to be rude.”

“You haven’t heard anything about the recent deaths, then?” Scully prodded.

The Captain shook his head. “Ma’am, with all the nonsense in the news today, I try to stay as far away from public affairs as possible. We’re watermen here, we ain’t got no time to worry about nothin’ but our quota and our folks. But it’s an awful shame, real awful shame. Nobody ever thinks of the FBI in a place like Smith Island.”

“We’re not exactly the most conventional department**,” **Mulder admitted.

The boat pulled into the dock. The Captain, who they now called Mr. Pearson because Captain was too formal, waved to his fellow sailors, all of them calling each other by name, pulling in their catches for the day. Most of them were named Marshall, or Evans, or Smith. Everyone knew everyone in town. Those were the places Mulder liked best. One of the benefits of his job was traveling out of the city. He liked large open fields where you could throw a baseball around, local corner stores with homemade goods, and hole in the wall diners where the coffee was bitter, and the food wouldn’t pass an FDA inspection. That was his definition of paradise.

“You know of any good motels in the area?”

“Motel?” the man thought. “No, I don’t think so. There’s the Big Blue Anchor, the Bed n Breakfast off Sand Dollar Ln. Clean rooms, great coffee. Might have to converse with tourists, though there ain’t too many of them around this time of year.” He grinned, his teeth mostly yellow with brown plaque tucked into the back molars. “And you might not like bein’ so cozy.”

Mulder gave Scully a smug look. “We’ll take our chances.” 

He helped her off of the boat as he jumped onto the lower dock. He didn’t really notice he was doing it or pay it much mind. He always did those ‘gentlemanly’ things without thinking. It wasn’t until Scully said something, if she ever did, that it came to his attention. He wasn’t a naturally gentlemanly person and was actually quite careless at times. But he often found himself doing things like that for Scully, placing his hand on the small of her back, taking her by the hand to help her off of things. Upon consideration, he concluded his reason for doing them must have been because she was short.

The deputy met them with a smile and a handshake, but it didn’t appear that he had much of an opinion of them one way or another. He was the deputy of Crisfield, not Smith Island, and soon it was revealed that this was because there was no local law enforcement on the island at all. Such a thing had never even crossed Mulder and Scully’s minds, but it explained why the other deaths hadn’t been reported. Instead, the Reverend of the local Methodist church, who typically handled these matters, came with them to the home of the victim, Joseph Hartigan, where they planned to question his sister who found the body. It was the usual conversation on the way, how the FBI being there was causing rumors in the town, how some of the islanders welcomed them while others felt island matters should be taken care of within the privacy of their community. Yet, compared to some places, there was an ease to this place. People smiled in a friendly manner. No one tried to sneer them off the street or chase them down for a brief moment of attention, as had been their experience in some other towns. Everyone appeared preoccupied with their own lives. This comforted Mulder but was highly suspicious to Scully.

Mr. Pearson was right in the sense that there were some conversations, particularly along the docks as they passed, that they were unable to understand at all. The dialect was thick Cornish with a southern drawl, or maybe Elizabethan from the Midwest. No, there was no way to describe what they were hearing. Nothing like it existed in the modern world. There were few cars, as the island was too small. Instead, they were given a golf cart to tootle around in. Bikes were also common transport along with the boats docked along the coast with some patches of grass cutting off right into the ocean and others fading into sandy banks.

The Hartigan’s home was mounted on an edge of thick grass with dunes that barely got a half of a foot above the ground. The beach around the area was not much of one, but the old house had a lovely ocean view that caught the Agents’ attention. It was a two-story wooden home painted eggshell, with walls, they were told, of solid concrete not plaster. Creaking steps lead to a quaint porch with one chair perched just-so to watch the lazy sun fall into the water. A woman answered the door, a more elderly woman than they imagined, frail with dark bags beneath her eyes. She wore a peach colored top with a lightly printed floral pattern. Over it was a dark blue rain coat. She was the godmother of the sister, Emma Hartigan, the only living member of her immediate family.

“He couldn’ta died soon enough,” the woman said.

Scully was aghast. “Excuse me?”

“Oh,” the Reverend chimed in. “That only means he went on too soon,” he explained. “These folks ain’t from around here, Ms. Carol.”

She looked Mulder up and down. “Don’t I know it.”

“We’ve got a hearty tradition’a backwards talk here, Ms. Scully. I can see how it’d get confusin’.”

Scully nodded as the Reverend explained the local phrasing.

“Poor Emma’s just ill over the whole thing,” the woman said, now shifting her words. “She ain’t slept a wink. First her Pa and now this...”

“Could we speak with Emma, Ms. Carol?” Mulder asked.

She looked off for a while before allowing them inside. 

The teenage girl sat on the couch, her brown curls fallen over her shoulder unwilling to stay tied. She did not acknowledge them as they walked in but kept her eyes on the floor. Mulder found his way to the chair across from her, close enough to where he could speak to her gently but far enough away as to not be imposing. Scully kept a slight distance but wasn’t far behind. The room had an old musty smell, like a flea market or an old antique store. It was moldy, but in a comforting way. The upholstery on the furniture also smelled. Its fabric was well-worn, well-loved.

“Emma. My name is Fox Mulder, this is Agent Dana Scully. We’re with the FBI,” he began. She didn’t have a reaction. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about your brother.”

At that, the young girl looked up. Her eyes were dull. Her voice was mousy and cracked when she spoke. “You gonna reckon it was suicide?”

Mulder and Scully exchanged looks.

“No,” Scully said taking a step forward into the room. “No, we don’t think that.”

“We’re not quite sure what happened,” Mulder spoke calmly. “That’s why we need you to help us. We think whatever happened to your brother might happen again and we want to do everything we can to prevent that.”

The girl nodded.

“Did you notice anything strange about your brother before he disappeared?” Mulder asked. “Any bizarre changes of behavior, sudden illnesses, new people entering the picture?”

Emma sharply inhaled. “I thought there was a girl,” she said. “On account’a the hour he’d come home nights.”

“He came home late?” Scully asked.

“Morning sometimes. So, I thought maybe it was a girl, but he said there weren’t none. That he’d just end up there and he didn’t know how.”

Scully eyed Mulder. “Sleep walking?”

“Didn’t say,” Emma replied. “Just that he didn’t wanna worry me by sayin’ it. That’s what he said right before...” the girl sniveled. “He wasn’t happy, none. He’d just walk off into the sea and leave everything behind.”

The Reverend told the Agents that at this point she was saying the opposite.

“That’s it?” Mulder continued. “He just walked off right into the water?”

“I didn’t see. But that’s where the footprints ended. I had just gone to the house for a moment and he was there when I left, just fine. I knew my brother, Sir. Knew him better than nobody I know he didn’t just walk off. So there had to be a girl or someone had to have done somethin’ to him, but he said there weren’t—” She choked.

“You two were close?” Scully found a seat.

Emma smiled the way one does when they are struck with a fond but bittersweet memory. “Not close enough.”

Scully and Mulder were now catching onto the pattern.

“It true how they found him?” she questioned them.

“There could be many explanations for that, Emma,” Scully assured her. “We still have to autopsy the body before we learn anything more.”

“He weren’t the kind to just go out,” Emma explained. “People here ain’t the goin’ out type anyhow.”

“Did you notice anything...” Mulder began again, wheels spinning in his own mind. “Peculiar happening that night? Lights in the sky, cold or hot pockets of air, images that seem...otherworldly?”

The girl’s eyes finally found his. “I don’t follow you, Sir.”

“Anything supernatural.”

The Reverend’s ears naturally began to burn. “Agent—”

Emma stared at him for a long time. Her eyes graced the Reverend, and then worked their way back to him. “Can it just be us?” she said in an almost whisper.

“Absolutely not,” The Reverend stepped forward. Mulder stood to meet him. “You’re not the law on this island. That is my jurisdiction.”

“It’s the witness’ request,” Mulder stated.

But the Reverend beefed up, the Crisfield Deputy waiting on the periphery to intervene. “We are a respectable Christian community here, Agent Mulder. I won’t have you goin’ round doin’ the Devil’s work.”

But Mulder remained cool. “I assure you, Reverend, we’re much more in the business of exercising demons than giving them means.” He gestured to the door. “Please.”

The Reverend reluctantly exited the room along with the Deputy. Scully wondered if she should stay or if she should use this time to question the godmother. She chose to hover in the door, curious as to what the girl would say to her partner.

Mulder looked over his nose expectantly, but still with a degree of stoicism.

Emma looked at the door and fidgeted. “I weren’t certain he’d leave,” she whispered. “He’d have me seen barkin’ mad if he stayed.”

“The Reverend?”

Emma nodded. “You won’t tell.”

“I have to tell my partner,” he said as he motioned toward Scully perched in the doorway. “Is that okay?”

She agreed, scooting to the edge of the couch. “I didn’t find the body,” she finally spoke. “It weren’t stumbled upon I knew...” she swallowed. “I mean I just got an image of it. So, I went and there it was.”

Mulder observed intently. “You had a premonition.” 

“He’d been gone three nights. I got to worryin’ and I got these visions. At first they were just that he got a girl, but when he didn’t come home they got scary. Like he weren’t alive no more. That morning I woke up and saw him dead in my mind. Drowned. Drowned on the dock where the crab boats come in. And I found him there just like was in my vision.” She cupped her hands over her mouth. “Every detail exactly the way I saw it.”

Mulder brought over a box of tissues, handing one to her.

“I’m a murderer...” she cried. “I thought him dead.” 

“You believe her?” Scully asked as they left the house.

“I believe she believes,” Mulder replied.

“Well, that’s something,” she supposed.

Because there were such limited resources on the island, Scully went to the docks to do her autopsy at a metal fish cleaning station, which the locals had allowed her to use. It was much easier than getting the body off the island, as there was said to be a storm brewing that evening and all the boats were ordered in. Meanwhile, Mulder found himself working in the small back room of a church alongside the Deputy who was miffed he wouldn’t make it home for dinner.

“You know what they say. Red sky at night, Sailor’s delight,” Mulder said trying to lighten the mood.

The Deputy shifted through the case file. “You really believe in that spooky stuff, Mr. Mulder?”

“_Spooky_,” he grumbled with derision. “Yes, I do.”

“But there ain’t nothin’ like that goin’ on here,” he said. “Or else why would they call the FBI? Why wouldn’t they call like...I dunno, Area 51? Or the Ghostbusters or somethin’?”

Mulder huffed. “The Ghostbusters are an unsanctioned vigilante group sponsored by private interest. The government wouldn’t fund that kind of project even if knowledge of the occult were public. The cost for equipment alone would be more than the entire Gulf war.”

It was silent for a while. “Boy, your wife must think the world’a you,” he jeered.

Mulder whisked back.

“Gonna be a long one,” the Deputy said, stretching his back and arms. “We’ll have to close the shutters up before we leave.” He grinned. “I’m gonna make a run to the kitchen for a pick me up. I’ll get you a refill. How do you like it?”

“Teeth-staining,” Mulder said, handing him the mug he was using.

As the Deputy left, Mulder glanced over the files once again, spreading the evidence out over the counter so he could see everything. His notebook sat in the corner, open, ready for his analysis. His phone interrupted his thoughts, erupting in his pocket.

He answered. “Mulder.”

“Mulder, it’s me.” Scully’s voice came over the receiver.

He stepped away from the desk. He could tell by her tone now when she had discovered new evidence. “What’d you find?”

“Bruises,” she stated. “Along the groin area of the victim, as well as lacerations in the lower thigh.”

He paused a while, letting that sink in. “Uh-huh.”

“I don’t think he died a very happy man. I cross-checked my results with Nathan Miller’s autopsy and found a similar pattern. You were right, Mulder. These are murders.” She inhaled audibly. “I don’t think I have to tell you what those wounds mean.” 

He couldn’t help but crack a tiny grin, one that no one but those who knew him well would be able to see. “It means this case just got a lot more interesting.”

“When you showed me that photo back in the office,” Scully started again. She couldn’t hide the hesitation in her voice. “Is this what you were expecting to find?”

“It’s what I was hoping to find.”

“Why?”

He sat on the desk, his feet still planted firmly on the ground. “You can’t tell me you’re not at least a little intrigued.”

He could hear her roll her eyes from the other end of the line. “I’m starting to get information overload here, Mulder. And none of it actually explains the cause of death. I feel like the more facts we acquire about this case the more things just don’t add up.”

“Yeah. I’ve got a theory about that,” Mulder said. The door to the office creaked as the Deputy walked in holding the two mugs. “Hey, Scully. I’m gonna have to call you back.” He hung up the phone. “Some results from the autopsy came in.”

“Oh?” he asked, sipping his freshly brewed coffee and holding the other mug out to the Agent. “And what would the findings be, then?”

“Murder. Probably one in a long line of serial murders and sexual assaults.”

“_Sexual_ assaults, you said?”

“Yes.”

“...on a man.”

“Yes.”

“The murder’s queer?”

“Unlikely.”

The Deputy tilted his head. “But I never seen no wounds like that on any of the others.”

Mulder nodded. “Well, not all sexual assault leaves behind physical evidence. It’s what makes it so hard to prove or disprove. In vaginal or anal penetration, you can usually find traces of semen or spermatozoa, but nothing like that was found here.”

“Good heavens. What does it mean?”

Mulder walked by him tipping the mug up as though in a toast. “It means your killer’s a lady, Deputy.” He sipped the stain-black coffee and left the room, giving one last nod of approval at the quality of the drink.

Black and bitter. Perfect.

“Not only are female serial killers impossibly rare, but ones with possible supernatural origins? I’ve got goosebumps, Scully. Goosebumps.” 

Mulder was almost emoting he was so thrilled as he shoved a piece of thinly layered yellow cake into his mouth. Mulder had two modes. He could be robotic as a toaster and then turn around and perform like that one kid in high school drama class that tries way too hard. It was like a game of roulette, you never knew what you were going to get.

“Not to mention the fact that forced-to-penetrate assault cases are uncommon in and of themselves.” She sighed, pulling the cake away from her partner and taking a bite for herself. “How’d the Deputy take it?”

“He still can’t wrap his head around a woman murderer, let alone a serial rapist.” He shrugged. “I can’t blame him. It’s not really their domain.”

“There was no point of entry for the sea-life to come into the organs, not even scarring in the tissue.” Scully explained as she leaned her cheek on her hand. “It was as though they had been growing _inside_ of the body. Which would normally lead me to discount the murder theory altogether, but the other evidence contradicts that assumption. Perhaps this woman has a disease and is transferring it. Maybe without even knowing.” 

“She definitely knows,” Mulder took his cake back. “Scully. Are you saying she’s giving them _cra_—”

“Don’t. Say it.”

He looked down, hiding his satisfied face.

“It’s possible she isn’t the only one who has it, either.” Scully stopped, her eyes lowered at the table. “Only...”

“What?”

“I couldn’t find anything cellularly wrong with the body. Nothing aside from the usual changes you find in drowning victims. No strange reproductive patterns, no parasites, nothing. I sent samples to Quantico for analysis. Hopefully they’ll get to the main land before the storm hits. Still, it’s odd.”

Seeing the disheartened look on Scully’s face, Mulder pushed the plate back over to her. She gave him a tender smile that only lasted a moment and took a bite, licking the chocolate frosting off the fork.

“What about Emma Hartigan’s testimony?” Mulder asked. “Her vision?”

“I think anyone could have come up with a scenario and would have been somewhat accurate.”

“Yeah, but she knew the exact location where he would be found and the condition he was in.”

But Scully shook her head. “All that tells us is that she has too much information on the case not to be a suspect.”

“But then why even tell us?” Mulder was getting passionate now. His speech was picking up and his eyes were glinting. “Why not keep it to herself? Why claim to have a vision that revealed vital information about a case she’s implicated in?”

Her brow lifted as she smirked. “Maybe she knows you by reputation.”

Mulder laughed.

“You have to admit that absolutely none of this connects.”

“I disagree,” he said. “I think it all makes perfect sense.”

Scully paused shortly with an incredulous look. “How?” She set down the fork and leaned on the table. “Why are we really here, Mulder?”

He mirrored her movements. “Think about it, Scully. Folklore has been telling tales of women of the sea seducing men and leading them to their deaths for centuries. Our victims are gone for three days, _exactly_ three days, before they are found in various locations. And when they are found they’ve practically swallowed the ocean itself. Emma Hartigan said her brother had been sleep walking, and when he woke up he would be at the docks. Like something was calling him there. I think Emma had such a strong connection with her brother it gave her some kind of psychic transference that allowed her to see his death. Which is how she knows about this other woman. All the victims were found around a coastal fishing village relatively untouched by civilization. It’s the perfect place for one of these creatures to inhabit.”

Scully stared at him for a good long while, the skin on her forehead creased because of how high she was raising her brows. “You’re hunting mermaids.” Her voice was flat with a hint of condescension. Mulder said nothing but lifted and lowered his own eyebrows in confirmation before picking up a napkin to wipe with. Scully exhaled out of one side of her mouth. “Well, at least it isn’t crab people.”

“Technically, I think what we’re looking for would be closer to a siren,” Mulder corrected.

“Aren’t they the same thing?”

“Actually, no. Sirens aren’t known to have tails. In fact, their original incarnations were said to be more birdlike than fish. In Greek mythology they were cursed to die when a mortal passed by them without perishing by their song. In one story, they were convinced by Hera, queen of the Gods, to enter a singing competition against the Muses and when they lost the Muses plucked out all of their feathers to wear as crowns. In despair, the Sirens turned pale and flung themselves into the sea. Hence, the mermaid connection. They supposedly all died after Odysseus escaped them, but their influence has lived on, albeit conflated with the myth of sea-folk from various other cultures.” His face was focused on the plate where half the cake was gone. “It’s an easy mistake.”

“That’s a leap even for you,” said Scully.

“Well, what’s your theory?”

“I don’t have one yet,” she admitted trying to take another bite. “But I can assure you it wasn’t a fish woman.”

Mulder yanked the plate back before she could sink her fork in. “Bird woman.”

“_To-mah-to_.” Her well-manicured finger danced along the top of the cake, picking up the icing that soon slipped off onto her tongue. 

“I think the Reverend is suspicious,” Scully extrapolated as they made their way down the dock. “Five murders and not a single report. And he didn’t seem thrilled about us being here to begin with.”

“We don’t have a great track record when it comes to small town churches, do we?” Mulder thought aloud. His face suddenly brightened. “You know, sirens were greatly feared by early Christians because they were reminiscent of pagan ritualism, their seductive ways the ultimate form of temptation.” 

Scully stopped walking. “Mulder.”

“Not unlike the Heretic witches of Europe whom the church claimed were devil worshipers due to their impure sexual practices.” He skipped lightly around to the front of her.

She glared at him. “You’re enjoying this.”

He stopped. “What?”

She shook her head, continuing to walk again. He trailed behind, despite the fact that he could easily catch up.

“Scully.”

“There’s a serial murderer out there and you’re acting like it’s Christmas morning.”

“I was never that into holidays. Too much shopping,” he teased. She ignored him. “Oh, come on, Scully. You admitted the killer’s most likely a woman. Who’s to say there isn’t also a supernatural explanation? You said so yourself, there’s no other connection between the facts of the case.”

“Your _speculation_ is not discernable evidence.”

“Not yet.”

She slowed to a stop. “Well, there’s an easy way to test your theory.”

That sparked his curiosity.

“Get a boat, take it out to sea, throw yourself overboard and wait for a mysteriously beautiful woman to come to your rescue.” With that, she continued to walk in front of him, briskly so he knew she was annoyed.

_It’s not a mermaid_, he thought. 

They passed by the boats, who were coming in early with their catches. Mulder stopped following Scully and headed to the edge of the dock when he saw the top of a familiar brown cap.

“Ahoy, Mr. Pearson!” He scuttled down to meet the old man. Scully followed.

“Well,” Mr. Pearson greeted him pulling in the net. “Thought I’d run into you two. How goes the investigation? You find the cause yet?”

“Definitely murder,” he said confidently.

Mr. Pearson shook his head. “Is it awful I’m relieved? Don’t want no diseases in the livelihood, you know.”

“Well,” Scully intervened. “We haven’t entirely discounted the possibility of disease—”

“But it’s doubtful,” Mulder interrupted. She grimaced at him, knowing he did that on purpose to get back at her for dismissing his mermaid idea. “We were about to check into the Inn. You know of any places we can get something decent to eat? We’ve been living on cake and coffee the last eight hours.”

“That’s a livin’,” he said jovially. “Ain’t nobody offered to feed you nice folks?”

“That’s what we get for doing the _Devil’s work_,” Mulder smirked.

“We typically just fend for ourselves,” Scully explained.

“Well, that won’t do. Shouldn’t have’ta pay for a decent meal out here. Chrissakes. Investigatin’ a murder, nobody even offers their home. They must be real shook. But that don’t mean they gotta lose their manners. Pray to forgive’m. We’re a right friendly town on normal occasions. You come on over and I’ll have the Missus cook you up a real feast. Fresh from today’s catch. It’s just up the way.”

Scully smiled politely. “Thank you, but I think we’ll pass.”

It was Mulder’s turn to be aghast. “Free food, Scully,” he whispered.

She approached him, her voice quieting trying not to be rude. “Mulder, I just spent the last few hours scooping live crustaceans out of a man’s organs. The _last _thing I want to do is eat seafood.”

“Pass the butter.”

Scully’s mouth was so stuffed with crab meat she didn’t even bother to swallow before she started talking. That seemed to be a constant around the table. Conversation even halted for minutes on end, just so everyone could enjoy their meal. This place certainly earned its reputation. Mr. Pearson stayed at the table continuing to crack more shells while his wife hardly sat down. She was so thrilled to have company she apparently pulled out all of the good china, which to Scully just looked like regular dinner plates. Not that she would ever judge.

“And you know what? They actually asked us if we wanted two rooms. Which I appreciated very much,” Scully replied when Mr. Pearson asked if they checked into the Inn alright. “Normally, they don’t. They just assume the obvious. It was nice not having to explain for once.”

“I kind of get a kick out of telling people we’re not married. They never see it coming,” Mulder said dipping a huge leg into the dish of drawn butter.

“Thank goodness they had something available, otherwise one of us would’ve had to stay on the mainland. Who knows if we could’ve even made it out there in this weather?”

Mulder grunted, his mouth also full. “I'd just sleep on that couch in the lobby.”

“That thing is half your height.”

He swallowed. “We’ll switch off.”

“Thank God it didn’t come to that.”

Their hosts laughed and went back to eating.

“You must get to know each other real well, travelin’ about the way you do,” Mr. Pearson said.

“It builds trust.” Mulder smiled at Scully who thoughtfully reciprocated.

“That life in’t for us,” Mr. Pearson explained. “Oh sure, when I was a boy. I’d go out fishin n’ crabbin’ from mornin’ till sundown. Nowadays I can’t wait to be home.”

“Forty years he been sayin’ that,” his wife cooed. “Forty years he still comes back at daybreak.”

“Ah!” He waved her off as she set down a fresh glass of water for him.

“But it’s good for business,” she grinned, taking a strand of white hair behind her ear. “We got it worse than some folks...er...better’s what I mean.”

“How do you complain when you eat like this every night?” Scully chimed in.

“We’re up to our ears in it,” Mrs. Pearson chuckled. “But I ain’t sick of it yet. Nothin’ like the blues. Nowhere in the world.” 

Mr. Pearson sat up. “I met this one when she was workin’ down at the bakery on the mainland docks. I walk by and smell that yeast-a-risin’ and think ‘today’s the day I go in.’ Course, it took the better part’a two years ‘fore I even got to the door.” He chortled.

“Drenched head to toe.”

“Took one bite’a that sourdough and that was it for me. I was sunk.” He leaned over the table. “She thinks I married her, but really I married the sourdough.”

“Thought I was gettin’ a Captain,” she jeered back. “But I reeled me in a salty old geezer who can’t clean his own nose.” She took the napkin and wiped it. The old man moved his head away, embarrassed.

“Ah!” he croaked again.

She finished, shaking her head. “A murderer on Smith Island. The notion of it.”

“World’s sure changin’.” Mr. Pearson took his wife’s hand. “Makes you grateful for what you got,” he said kissing it. “All the blessings God gives. Like this bread!” He changed his tone immediately, picking up a loaf and placing it in front of Mulder. “You go’n taste that, Agent. You tell me you ain’t madly in love.”

Mulder broke the bread, steam rising from its soft center. The smell filled the whole room.

“Sourdough’s just the way they leaven it naturally. No need to add yeast, ya just let it rise. That’s the old way of doin’ it. Still the best in my opinion...” He grinned. “You marry yourself a sourdough, Young Man. Ain’t nobody never found happiness in a yeasty loaf’a bread.”

Scully tried to hold in a giggle as she watched Mulder’s idiomatic discomfort appear on his face. He swallowed a forced smile and bit into the bread. The taste of food brought a lightness back into his expression.

“You’ll never go hungry,” Mr. Pearson added, not able to read him the way she could.

Mrs. Pearson walked around the table to where Scully was sitting. “And don’t _you_ dare marry no crab,” she whispered with a simper. 

Mulder smiled as Scully’s face tensed. Now it was even. 

It was Mulder’s idea to attend church service Sunday morning in Ewell. It was his guess that everyone in town would be there, so they could knock out most of the questioning in one go. He was fairly efficient that way, Scully had to admit. Despite his eccentricities, or perhaps because of them, Mulder was extremely good at his job. There were actually three churches on the island, so his plan did not turn out the way he had originally hoped. Truthfully, he was starting to get anxious. The case wasn’t coming together for him as quickly as usual and she could tell he was concerned that it had been a whole day with no new information. She noticed the usual signs, his fingers twitching, blank stares into nothingness. He wasn’t a patient man. He sat next to Scully in the back pew of the Methodist church. Scully watched the Reverend preach out of the book of James. Mulder watched too holding an extra-large cup of black coffee.

“‘God cannot be tempted by evil, nor does he tempt anyone. But each person is tempted when they are dragged away by their own evil desire and enticed...” He preached with an admirable passion. “Then after desire has conceived it gives birth to sin. And sin when it is full-grown gives birth to death.’ This is the word of the Lord. He says it best, I don’t have to elaborate on the word. The word says ‘Do not be deceived brothers and sisters! Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of heavenly lights, who does not change like the shifting shadows.’ This is the word of the Lord! All that is good comes from Him. All that is evil lies within us! We do not blame God for wickedness. We do not blame Him when the world says it’s okay to act in sin. The world is always changing, but God stays the same, Amen?” The congregation responded in kind. “Thank God! Thank God for his Grace. Thank Him that we know where our light comes from!”

Scully sank down a bit. It was always uncomfortable to sit with Mulder in a sanctuary. He was never improper, nor did she imagine he was secretly laughing at the scene in his mind. No matter how many of their cases brought them to a church, and there were many, he never quite got used to them. He believed if there were a God, he was impartial, indifferent, observant, perhaps like an energy force that held things together. But he never claimed to know due to improvable nature of it all. It took a while for Scully to get Mulder’s ‘deal’ when it came to the church, seeing as believing in things that were rejected by science was seemingly his modus operandi. The way he described it once was that while you could gather evidence to prove supernatural phenomena, you could never prove the character of God: benevolent or malicious. But due to the nature of the world, he supposed God didn’t care about it that much at the end of the day. Which was why he did not understand why Scully, a woman of extreme skepticism for all things esoteric, had a flavor of blind faith in the Christian God. Conceptually, he did. She knew he understood its need and its cultural significance. However, emotionally it puzzled him. It was one thing they constantly fought about.

Sometimes he made commentary, but today he just quietly watched and listened. Unresponsive.

It was those times when she was the most concerned.

“Nice Sermon, Reverend,” Mulder approached him after the service had ended. “Very appropriately timed.”

“Agents. Didn’t expect to see you here of a Sunday.”

“We thought it would be a good place to get testimony,” Scully said. “Talk to some of the locals. See what they know.”

The Reverend’s face darkened. “Listen. I don’t want you goin’ round tellin’ folks what you told the Deputy. We got enough of a scare here.”

Mulder’s lips pursed. “Well, if there is a serial murderer out there, the people have a right to know, don’t you think?”

“Those wounds could’a come from anywhere,” the man insisted. “And you got no other evidence. I think you should get more information before you tell this nice tight-knit community one’a their own is a pervert.”

Scully exhaled. “Then how do you propose we continue?”

“The Deputy’s gone to talk to some of the witnesses now the case is opened up. He’s makin’ a trip out to Crisfield. You might wanna tag along.” 

She looked at Mulder. “I could use a change of scenery.”

“What about you, Reverend?” Mulder asked.

“It’s Sunday, Agent. I know how it might look to you, but I’m a church man. That’s my priority. I’ll be sure to pick up with you come Monday. One thing.” He approached Mulder with a stern look. “You’re not a man of faith, Agent Mulder?”

“I like to stay open-minded,” he replied.

“Mm.” He looked at him for a while. “There’s a room ‘round back for food and conversation, but this here is holy ground. I’d appreciate you didn’t litter it.” The Reverend’s eyes attached to Mulder’s coffee cup.

The Agent nodded. “I apologize.”

He tipped his head toward Scully. “Ms. Scully...”

He turned to greet other members of the congregation and Mulder and Scully turned the opposite direction to walk out the door.

“I think I’m growing on him,” Mulder jeered.

“How convenient he won’t be joining us today,” Scully mumbled so only Mulder could hear.

“You still think he’s suspicious?”

“Do you not?”

Mulder shrugged. “Maybe he’s got a point. Maybe we should withhold some of the facts of the case until we have a suspect. It’s going to be a rough thing to digest, especially in a place like this.” 

Suddenly, there was a panting at the door. A woman stood there, her hand gripping the frame. She was so out of breath it was difficult to decipher her words at first.

“Reverend, come quick! I think Mrs. Pearson’s havin’ a heart attack!”

Scully pushed through the crowd. “I’m a doctor!” 

When they arrived at the house, Mrs. Pearson was not having an actual heart attack, but was sitting outside on the dock, her legs tucked under her. Her eyes were wide open, staring at the sea.

“He never misses church,” she whispered when Scully got there. Mulder kept his distance until he knew there was nothing medically wrong. “Forty years married. He never misses it.”

Scully sat down next to her. “What happened, Mrs. Pearson?”

The old woman told them the story through heaving breaths, how she had a feeling that Mr. Pearson shouldn’t go out the night before, and how even though it had been getting late, he always came back by morning. According to her, something told her that if he went out that night, he would not come back. At first, he agreed as he usually did and told her he would not go out. However, that morning she awoke to find him missing, along with his vessel.

“I saw it clear as day in my mind,” she stuttered. “I wake up and the boat would be gone. And I’d spend all mornin’ waitin’, but he weren’t comin’ back.”

Mulder took Scully aside.

“The good news is there isn’t anything medically wrong with her,” she said.

He touched her arm. “Maybe you should go with the Deputy and I’ll stay here with Mrs. Pearson.”

“You don’t think she had a vision...”

“More like a hunch,” he said. “I think I want to talk to the islanders some more. There are pieces to this that just don’t add up.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying all along.”

He stared off. “Mr. Pearson doesn’t fit the killer’s usual M.O. The others were younger men. He was well-into his seventies. Something isn’t right here.”

“Maybe this disappearance isn’t related to the other cases.”

He wouldn’t look at her. “Maybe.”

“Mulder?” she tried. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Scully.” He was defensive, so she knew not to pry.

The two went their separate ways, hoping they would have better luck.

**Part Two: Imogen**

The whistle of the wind was like music, an old song lost to time. As Mulder lay in bed watching the shadows dancing on the ceiling, he sensed the pattering of the rain disappear leaving only the wind. It was a small room with thin walls, no light could be seen but from the cracks in the window, but even still the new moon enhanced the darkness. The shutters had stopped clanging. What should have been a lullaby kept him awake in foggy meditation. The wind sang, pitched like a soprano. He sat up, stretching his neck down. He couldn’t see the clock. The noises faded to white as he went to the window. Out of the wind came a hum. One note at first, then three. It was faint, easy to miss to the unfocused ear. The clouds had completely dispersed now, the twinkling stars beaming down on the peaceful island. As Mulder leaned his head toward the window he could see his reflection in the glass, the exhaustion in his eyes. They had lost their sheen over the years. No one but him could really see it, but to him it was only an empty shell that gazed back. A shell, he thought amused, where one’s mind creates oceans where there is only air.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a fog crawl across the sandy banks, coating the ground in an ethereal mist. He looked closer. A shadow moved through, enveloped in the haze. Without getting his phone, he moved from the window to the door, scurrying down the stairs. On the front porch, he could see it all around, the sound of the whistling wind coming back although he could not feel any breeze. He caught the shadow again and sprinted out into the street to follow it.

There was a flash. He skidded to a halt. The entire street washed white.

The shutters flapped against the widow, unable to contain themselves in their anxiousness. Scully turned to one side, then the other before finally sitting up. She could hear the waves crashing against the shore, the storm building in momentum. Stumbling through the dark, she located the light switch, but upon flipping it found no electricity. Annoyed, she flipped it off, grabbing her robe from the banister. The flash of lightning allowed her to see just enough to light a candle by her bedside. The owner of the Inn mentioned that outages were common, so they kept them handy along with a set of matches just in case. It was as though she were walking through a novel of classic literature, with its leather faded, its pages yellowed, and its print thin with poetic prose. She wandered down the hallway and down the stairs, noticing a light coming from a room in the far corner. As she approached, she could see a tall figure leaning over an open book on a small desk, trying not to cast its shadow over the words. Beside the book, a smaller notebook was open.

As she approached, she could see that the white shirt the figure was wearing was drenched, as was their hair. Wet footprints lead to their chair from across the room, water puddling carelessly on the oak floor.

“Mulder?”

The figure didn’t look up when their name was called.

“What are you doing?”

“Research,” he replied simply.

“At two in the morning?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Scully went to the table, taking a seat in the wing-backed chair beside him and setting down her candle. He had found what looked to be a small library with shelves upon shelves of old books. She looked him over again. “Mulder, you’re sopping.”

“Yeah I uh...” He was clearly distracted. “I went for a walk.”

“A walk.” Scully shouldn’t’ve have been surprised anymore, but she found herself still acting like it. “In the storm.”

“It was clear when I left.” He flipped the page. “I thought I saw something.”

“What?”

“I didn’t catch it.” 

Scully looked at the book. On top of it was the file along with Mulder’s notes regarding the case. Or at least, what he believed to be pertinent information.

“You thought you saw something, so you walked out into a lightning storm. And there was nothing.”

“Just because I didn’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not out there, Scully.”

She nodded skeptically. “Your mermaid?”

“Siren,” he said under his breath.

“When I went to Crisfield, I looked into the details of the other victims,” she told him after a sigh. “They only gave us half the story. The woman who found Earl Collins wasn’t a bystander. She was his secretary. And according to many witnesses, madly in love with him. A married man. Nathan Miller was charged with sexual offences before his disappearance and who should find him but the woman who put forth the allegation. It was the same with every case, all the victims were males found by women whom they had some kind of personal connection to. And a few of the women claimed their murdered husbands were having an affair.”

Mulder didn’t acknowledge her.

“Mulder are you hearing what I’m saying?” She waited for him to reply. When she got nothing, she continued. “Joseph Hartigan was Emma’s final living relative. Her godmother said she was worried about Joe going to college because she was afraid of him meeting someone and leaving her behind.” She waited more. Still nothing. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I don’t think there’s anything supernatural about this case.”

His lips pursed. “Pearson.”

“Will be found by his wife in two days. I guarantee it.”

He finally looked at her. “What does it matter who found them?”

“I think it matters a great deal. Maybe it’s just as Emma said. Maybe they didn’t find them at all.” She scooted forward. “Maybe they already knew where the bodies were because they were the ones who put them there, and they’re using these visions as an alibi to keep from being questioned.” She became more confident as she went on. “Actually, there are plenty of reasons why these women would want their victim dead. I think they’re working together, and I think the Reverend is involved.”

Mulder scoffed, extremely dissatisfied with her conclusion.

“It’s not implausible,” she defended.

Mulder laughed through his nose. “No, it’s not. It’s impossible.”

Her face soured. “My theory is impossible.”

“That Mrs. Pearson murdered her husband? That a teenage girl killed and sexually assaulted her only living relative out of some spiteful jealousy toward a girlfriend that doesn’t even exist?”

Scully rolled her eyes and scooted back. “It could be a kind of revenge cult.”

“What about the cause of death? You still haven’t been able to explain that, even with the lab results which might I remind you didn’t show _any_ signs of disease.”

“No. That’s not true. The victims suffered from extreme hypernatremia.”

He glared. “A grain of salt.” 

“They had motive,” she stated. “And means. And they could get away with it because everything is so removed around here they could just blame it on the weather and nobody would bother to think twice!”

“What motive could Mrs. Pearson possibly have had for killing her husband?”

“Maybe he was having an affair.”

Mulder went aback. His expression surprised her. It wasn’t often she saw it, he tended to keep himself emotionally distant from her. But here, it was clear she had stepped somewhere she shouldn’t have. Mulder wasn’t upset. He was offended.

“Admit it, Scully. You don’t have any more information than I do.” He tried to circumvent the conversation.

“I’m just telling you what I know, Mulder. Unlike supernatural water women, this sort of thing has been known to happen.” 

“There are thousands of cases of mermaid sightings, Scully. First off. Okay. Second. Mr. Pearson hasn’t been found yet, so we don’t know if his disappearance is even related to the murders. And third. It’s a _siren.”_

“Well, a _siren _doesn’t explain the cause of death any more than anything else.”

“Mr. Pearson didn’t cheat on his wife.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he wouldn’t.”

“You don’t know hi—”

“He loved his wife, Scully!” Mulder snapped. “He doted on her. They depended on each other. They cared about each other. Didn’t you see her? She was beside herself. She could barely function. And you think she _killed _him?”

Scully watched as he sank back into his book defensively.

“He wouldn’t’ve cheated,” he said again. “He was happy.”

She inhaled after a long pause, letting him find himself again. “I know it seems...cold,” she spoke tenderly, moving in. “But speaking from experience, you can love someone more than anything in the world and still feel like it’s not enough.”

“Maybe not for us,” he murmured. “But these people...they’re different. Their whole world is different. How could you or I ever expect to understand what they have?”

“Maybe it was emotional. Not all affairs are sexual. Statistically, anywhere from twenty-six to seventy-five percent of couples experience some kind of transgression like this. It’s highly common. It has nothing to do with happiness—”

“I know about infidelity, Scully. I may or may not be a product of it.”

His words bit at her, as though he’d done it with his own teeth. The bitterness behind them sank deep into her skin like venom. She found herself stunned. Her throat closed as she tried to find something, anything to say back. “Mul—”

“That’s the last time you’ll hear me say it,” he whispered darkly.

She tried desperately to speak, but she was stuck.

He knew too, because he closed the book and stood. “We’ve lost our M.O. We can’t determine the cause of death. Three days on this island and we’re no closer than when we started. Just empty theories and loose conjecture.”

“We’ve won with less,” Scully gently comforted.

Mulder leaned over the book, his wet hair dripping over the cover. “I’m getting sea sick. There’s water in my ears...” He inhaled sharply. “I’m going to bed.”

“Mulder wait.” She finally found her voice. “I get that it’s attractive to imagine some monster’s out there, stealing these men away from their homes in the night. That the being responsible for these crimes is a heartless creature of myth with no other purpose than to cause destruction. Who you can vilify. Who has no remorse. But Mulder...that’s just not reality.”

“Fine. Don’t believe me,” he grumbled sternly. “You never do anyway.”

She reached across the arm of the chair, taking him by the hand. It was large and rough, and only barely held hers back. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on in your mind right now.” She squeezed his hand tightly. Her words sticking as she chocked back her rising emotions. “But no matter what you might think, or what the circumstances may be...you were not a mistake.”

He gazed dully at the floor before sniffing. “No, I wasn’t.” He let go of her hand, facing her direction. His words were matter-of-fact. “If anything, I was very much intentional. Which is a hell of a lot worse.”

He left the room, then. Without his books. Without the files or candle, abandoning Scully in the dark empty library.

She sank down into the wing-backed chair, unable to process at first. Her eyes wandered over to the desk where the case file was laid out. She took it in her hands, a printed image of John Waterhouse’s “The Siren” stuffed in amongst the evidence with scribbled notes paperclipped to it.

Pinching her nose, she sucked up anything trying to get out.

She had practically sunk into the chair, her eyes wanting to close but her too mind tangled to allow it. There was nothing to do now but sit and wait. Surely tomorrow none of this would be brought up. Business as usual would commence.

The darkness around her suddenly illuminated, filling the whole room. She sat upright, shielding her eyes.

She heard a voice coming from the entrance. “Power’s back on.”

Scully glanced at the voice’s direction to see a young woman standing there. She was medium height, but in the entrance looked much taller than she was. The woman stepped into the light, greeting her with a warm smile.

Scully sighed with relief. “You frightened me.”

“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “I should’ve warned you before I—” 

“No, no,” Scully found her bearings. “I just didn’t know this place had other guests.”

“Oh, I’m not a guest. I work here,” she replied. “I came down because I thought I heard talking. Thought I’d make sure everyone was comfortable.”

Scully scooted to the front of the chair, rubbing her eyes. “Oh. Yes, my, um, my partner was just here. We’re investigating a case.”

The Inn worker nodded. “I heard. Late night, then?”

Scully let out a deep sigh. “Long night.” She found her way back into the fold of the chair, her neck craned upward so her vision caught the ceiling. “I certainly don’t think I’m going to sleep.”

“Well, can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?”

Scully turned her head toward her. “A new life would be great.”

The Inn worker nodded. “Coffee it is.”

“I said something I shouldn’t have,” Scully admitted sipping her hot cup. “But then, how am I supposed to know where the line is when he won’t show it to me? It’s there but it’s hidden beneath diverting commentary and vacant expressions.” She shook her head as the Inn worker sat in another wing-backed chair beside her, simply listening. They had moved to a different part of the room. “It’s this case. I don’t think he expected it to stir him so much. We’ve only been here three days, but the weather’s been so atrocious we can barely go outside. I’m worried he’ll shut down if we don’t get a break soon.”

“You know how men are, they always have to be right even when it makes absolutely no sense.” The woman sipped her own cup of coffee. “They are programed for deep-rooted insecurity.”

“He certainly didn’t like my idea,” Scully confirmed. “As much as I’d like to blame it on the system, I don’t think it’s just that.” Her thumb stroked the side of her cup, letting the steam come up through her nose. “Mulder is...different.”

“Oh, Hun,” the woman shook her head. “They’re never different.”

Scully laughed. “No, not like that. I mean he’s...really different.” She leaned in as though to tell a secret. “You know what he’s doing here? What he’s really doing here?”

She leaned forward.

“He’s hunting mermaids.” Scully could not help but crack a smile, unable to keep a straight face as she told this poor, unsuspecting soul of her partner’s true intentions. “Yeah.”

The young woman’s face was incredulous. “Mermaids.”

She hid behind her cup, sipping more than usual. “Mm. No. Sorry. _Sirens. _There’s a big difference, you know.” Her dry wit mocked Mulder’s enthusiasm.

“Right.” Her new companion was trying to find the proper way to react to this.

“What?” Scully taunted. “You don’t believe in sirens?”

“No, I think they’re myths invented by men who fear women, so they can continue to fear women without consequence.” She shrugged with a sarcastic grin. “He seriously believes in mermaids?” 

“Oh, he believes in everything. See, for him it’s not just ego. It’s principle. Quite often his entire world view is staked on him being right.” She tried to be earnest as she said this.

“Now that definitely sounds like a man.”

Scully pulled back. “I guess it’s difficult to explain.”

“Guy running around with a gun hunting mythical creatures funded by the FBI,” the woman laughed. “Sounds like something you see on television. Your friend should have his own reality show.”

Scully decided to change the subject. Despite their quarrels, her instincts were to be protective of her partner. And this woman did not know anything about their history, so it wasn’t fair for Scully to be defensive. “You don’t sound like a local. Have you lived here long?”

“I’m from Annapolis,” she said, moving her thick black hair around her shoulders. Though it was thick, it was made up of thinner curls and waves. Her eyes, Scully could now see, were somewhere between blue and grey. Perfectly round. “I got my MFA in Poetry from George Mason about four years ago. At first there were many jobs, then there were no jobs. I just decided it wasn’t worth the rat race. I read about this place in a book and here I am. It’s a good place for poetry. Very...scenic.”

“And you like working here?”

“I like working in a kitchen so long as I choose to be there,” she remarked. “Sorry. I’m so used to talking to the locals. You’re out there in the world. You know what it’s like.”

“In both professions,” Scully confessed. “So why Smith Island? No offense, but you seem quite...progressive and this place...”

“No, I get it.” She smiled with just her lips. “Everyone wants to congregate in spaces where people are the same, to protect themselves. I get that. Some people need that. I chose to go somewhere where I knew gaining acceptance would be difficult. They’re not bad people, they’re just afraid of change. Their whole way of life is dying. I think being here helps ease the blow, gives them a face and a heart to contend with instead of just newspaper clippings and media broadcasts. Whether they feel that way or not I have no idea.”

“Your mere presence is a disruption.”

“You could say that.” She sipped her coffee. “The cakes are great. Views are to die for. And when things get hard, one can just lose themselves in the vastness of the ocean.”

“Well, we’re hoping no one else loses themselves to this particular ocean. It may not be the little mermaid, but there is a monster out there.”

The black-haired woman paused. “Consider the subtleness of the sea;” she recited. “How its most dreaded creatures glide under water, unapparent for the most part, and treacherously hidden beneath the loveliest tints of azure. Consider also the devilish brilliance and beauty of many of its most remorseless tribes, as the dainty embellished shape of many species of sharks. Consider, once more, the universal cannibalism of the sea; all whose creatures prey upon each other, carrying on eternal war since the world began.”

“Moby Dick.”

The woman grinned, thoroughly impressed. “Whoa. Melville fan.”

Scully’s breath was caught. “It’s my favorite.”

“Well, whatever’s out there, I’m glad you’re here...I’m sorry, I never asked your name.”

“It’s Sc—” She cleared her throat. “Dana.”

The woman held out her hand. Her skin whiter than Scully’s, her fingers long and elegant. “Imogen.”

Scully took it. “Imogen.”

It was a thirty-minute walk, give or take, from the cultural center in Ewell to the church in Rhodes Point, along the only drivable road across the island lengthwise. The storm had settled now, but the clouds still loomed overhead blocking the stars. Even if it continued to bluster, Mulder would probably have snuck out anyway. There was something out there, he knew it. And he was determined to find it, no matter what Scully said. Unlike her, he was partial to unpredictable and unsavory weather conditions. However, reaching the end and running out of road, he found no sign of the fog from earlier, no mystical singing, no wind. He had options. He could hike around the marsh, going off the marked path. He could go back up the coastline and check for suspicious activity around the homes and what little businesses there were. After doing all of these things with no results, he decided to turn back. Looking at his watch, he noticed it was close to five am. Another sleepless night.

It was on his way back to the Inn that he finally heard the wind again. It was different this time, a light breeze. The light from the moon casted down on the sea...

He stopped.

No moon was supposed to appear that night.

The white glow sat in the water, the small waves moving around it. There was a hum that came out of the wind into his ear. The song moved from minor to major, then to minor again. Simple. Hypnotic. Taken from the ancient chords of the sacred. He dare not disturb it. He slipped his shoes off, his coat following, his gun tucked inside. The light brightened but the song quieted. It was no longer all around him, but instead coming directly from the source. Mulder felt the soft cushion of the sand, then the cool air. The water went up to his ankles, then his knees, then hips as he approached the glowing light.

Fingers white like lilies scooped the sea water up, pouring it over the shoulders and down the back. The contour of the back was something out of a painting, curved like an hourglass with the stroke of the spine printed in delicate brushwork. Bathsheba in her lake. Her hair fell over her shoulder, blocking the front of her body. She glowed radiantly, her song magnetic. The water came up around her thighs but no higher.

Mulder reached out his hand to touch her. 

Her head began to turn.

“Sir!!” a shrill voice cut through. “Wait! Don’t do that! Sir!!”

Mulder turned to see a young girl scuttling across the beach toward him. He peered behind him. The bathing woman had disappeared. Wading through the waves, he made it back to shore, mildly disappointed by the interruption.

The girl caught her breath, finally getting a good look at him. “You’re that FBI Agent came to my house.” 

It was Emma Hartigan. 

He checked back with the water, unsure of what to say. “Uh...it’s Mulder.”

She held her brown sweater tightly peering out to where his eyes were focused. “You’re lookin’ for evidence, Agent Mulder?”

“Y-Yeah.” He looked at her. “Your godmother know you’re out here?”

Emma’s expression wilted. “You’re gonna tell her?”

Mulder grabbed his coat and slipped on his shoes, realizing he had forgotten to take off his socks. His feet squished in his soles.

“How about this,” he finally told the girl. “I don’t tell on you, you don’t tell on me. It’ll be a mutual nondisclosure agreement.” He shook the sand off of his pants.

Emma rocked back and forth on her toes. “I don’t know what that means, but I can keep a secret, Sir. Real good. I ain’t trustworthy, n—I mean, you can trust me.”

The two made it back to the road. “You wanna tell me what you’re doing out here?”

She scurried beside him, having trouble keeping up with his long legs. “Just patrollin’ the docks.”

“Patrolling?”

“On account’a what happened to Joe. I thought you were gonna walk into the water like he did. That’s why I screamed like that. But I couldn’t see who you were. I weren’t tryin’na disrupt your investigation or nothin’.” She slowed down as Mulder stopped. “I figure I could catch it before it happens again.”

“You don’t have to worry about that, alright? Agent Scully and I are really close to catching this criminal.” 

Emma stared at him flatly. “You are?”

“Yes. We are,” Mulder lied. “Come on, let me walk you home.”

Emma continued to stare out into the black waters nervously.

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep my hands in my pockets the whole time.” He lifted the sides of his open coat with his fists in the pouches.

She smiled quietly. “I ain’t afraid’a you, Sir.”

Mulder put his hands down. “But you are afraid of something.”

Emma’s small hand gripped the side of her sleeve, yanking it down. “I don’t think you oughtta go out there, Mr. Mulder,” she finally said. She could not tear herself away from the tide. “There’s demons in them waters.”

Mulder came beside her. “Aye,” he said. “With the voices of angels.”

As they arrived at the Emma’s porch, the sun barely peaked over the horizon. It was still cloudy, but there were patches of sky that peeked through. The clouds were dipped in gold, the sky flowering a bright vermillion.

“Red sky,” Mulder thought aloud.

“Means a storm’s comin’,” said Emma.

He grinned at her. “Better batten down the hatches.”

The morning was clear enough, but Mulder kept looking up for dark clouds nevertheless. He and Scully made their way back to the Pearson’s home to investigate further into Scully’s theory. Mulder wasn’t thrilled about it but knew if he pushed the issue Scully would only become upset with him. He was learning, slowly. Being a partner was a two-way street. It was difficult for him at times. He could tell from that morning that she was also being delicate with him, which made him feel worse. That was why he always thought it best not to converse with her on personal matters save the ones that were of immediate importance. 

“I don’t know why people feel like they need to fix coffee,” Mulder said, trying hard to keep the subject on anything but himself. “The stuff at the Inn has no personality. Absolutely no bite.” 

“Just like everything else, coffee should stay the same,” she derided.

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“That’s part of the charm of places like this,” he argued. “They don’t try to improve everything all the time. They’re happy with the way things are. I think we could learn a lot from them.”

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“The way things are. No progress or expansion. Just bitter black coffee.”

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Mulder gave pause. “Jeez, Scully. What’d you do last night, join the union?”

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“I just had a very enlightening conversation, that’s all. It made me think about a few things.” 

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“Conversation? With who?”

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As they opened the door, Mrs. Pearson was sitting in her small living room with another woman, who was holding her hands. The woman’s black hair was tied up in a bun, loose curls falling out.

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Scully beamed when she saw them. “With her.”

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Mulder squinted at the woman. “Serendipitous. You plan that?”

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Scully rolled her eyes.

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Ms. Carol was also there. It was her turn to do the cooking and cleaning for the day. The community had set up a system where each of the women would come in and provide food and care for those in grief. The black-haired woman came up to Scully, showing a big smile.

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“Dana, hi,” she greeted. “Did you finally get to sleep last night?”

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_Dana? _Mulder noticed with interest.

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“Surprisingly,” she said before remembering the man beside her. “Imogen, this is my partner, Agent Mulder. Mulder, this is Imogen. She makes the coffee at the Inn,” she told him to get a rise. He wasn’t listening to her though.

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“It’s a pleasure.” Imogen reached out to shake Mulder’s hand. He obliged, but the ends of his lips were twisting without him even knowing it.

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“You’re an empath,” he said.

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Imogen just sort of looked at him. “Huh?”

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“An empath?” Scully asked.

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“Someone who takes on the emotions and experiences of others,” he explained. “It’s a really special gift.”

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Imogen’s head tilted. “You weren’t kidding about him.” She laughed. “Pray heaven that the inside of my mind may not be exposed.”

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His grin got bigger. “Virginia Woolf.”

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Imogen chuckled, impressed. “Boy, you guys are on it. I’m going to have to start using my own words.”

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“Imogen, we were going to talk to Mrs. Pearson about her husband. We have something that may lead us to a break in the case.”

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“But we’ll wait till you’re done,” Mulder insisted. “No hurry.”

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That threw Scully off. “...We will?”

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He nodded intently at her. He then smiled at Imogen who politely smiled back.

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“Alright then, I guess I’ll uh...let you know? It was nice to meet you, Agent Mulder.” 

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His head was foggy. “Yeah. You too.”

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Scully’s face scrunched in confusion. 

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Ms. Carol joined them then, watching as Imogen went back to Mrs. Pearson. “God bless Imogen. She was such a help to our Emma.”

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Mulder’s ears perked. “She talked to Emma? When?”

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“She came by the house, nights when Joe was still missing. ‘Fore they found him. Didn’t say a word, just listened and offered her shoulder. Such a sweet soul. If not a bit...odd.”

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Mulder went to the door, ushering Scully to join him. His eyes planted on Imogen. “I think you were right, Scully,” he said. “I think there is a connection between these women.” He continued to watch intently. “I think it’s her.”

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Scully looked where he was looking, then back to him. “Imogen?”

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“Walk with me,” he whispered, going out the door.

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“Mind telling me what this is about?”

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“Just hear me out.” He was pacing. His mind whirled like a top. “What if Emma did have a vision. What if it was the same vision Mrs. Pearson and every other woman who discovered a body had? Maybe they didn’t have a psychic connection at all. Maybe it was someone else.”

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“Imogen,” she tried to follow.

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“I think Imogen gave those women their visions. Not to harm them, but to help them cope. To give them closure. She might not even know she’s doing it.”

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“Are you sure it isn’t just free-association making you think this?”

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“Positive.”

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“You said she was an empath.”

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“It makes sense, Scully. Empaths are notorious nurturers, not because they’re kind necessarily but because they absorb the energy around them to such a degree that they feel others pain and suffering. Imogen may be trying to protect herself from taking in all that negativity.” He bit his lip. “If the women were guilty, I don’t think she would have to do that.”

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“Not necessarily,” Scully said. “It could be she’s picking up on guilt and shame as well as grief.”

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“So you agree it’s a possibility.”

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“_If _you’re right,” she made her point. “Then you think Imogen has a connection to the real killer. That this psychic ability might be tapping into their intentions.”

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“That’s what I’m hoping. And if she’s at Mrs. Pearson’s house, that means she might be able to see where Mr. Pearson is.”

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“Does this mean you’ve given up on your siren theory?”

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His lips pursed. “I’m not sure yet.” He took a few steps back into the grass. “But I know where I might be able to find the answer. You stay and talk with the women. See if you can find any more connections with these stories.”

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“What are you gonna do?” She called after him. “Mulder!”

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“A storm is coming, Scully!” he shouted back as he scurried down the street.

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As Scully walked into the Inn, she noticed an unexpected visitor sitting in the front lobby. The girl was holding herself anxiously. The rain had already begun to fall outside, but the girl was dry as a bone. Meaning she had been there for a while.

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“Ms. Agent. Ma’am.” Emma still did not know what to call Scully. “You ain’t seen Mr. Mulder, have you?”

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Scully stopped. “No, why?”

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“He called my house and said he wanted to meet here. Said it was real urgent. But I came and he ain’t showed. Been waitin’ an hour.”

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Scully took a step backwards, trying to prevent herself from falling. “Do you remember what he said?”

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“He wanted to talk about Imogen.”

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“Dammit!” a man came charging down the stairs. “Which one of you left the door wide open? There’s water all over upstairs! Storm’s a-comin’, you know!”

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Scully’s chest tightened.

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She ran as fast as she could up the stairs. Sure enough, the floor was covered in water, reflecting like a mirror. Emma trailed behind her, but Scully told her to keep a safe distance and not enter any rooms until she did first. She followed the trail of the water right to Mulder’s room. Her gun was cocked, but she kept it lowered, moving to the side of the door.

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“Stay back,” she whispered.

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_Wham!_ The door flew open from the pressure of Scully’s kick. She entered the room, her gun pointed forward. No one was there, but the window was indeed wide open. The bed was soaked, the smell of sea water all over the room. His gun lay on the pillow, still in its holster. His phone on the bedside table. There was no blood, no sign of struggle, but Mulder’s coffee cup lay spilt on the bed. Scully picked it up, tipping it out once she realized there was nothing in there but salt.

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“I want this place dusted for prints. Get my anything you can find,” Scully told the Deputy when he finally arrived with the Reverend. “And I want you to send a sample of this salt to Quantico immediately.” She looked at the Reverend. “Take care of Emma, I think she’s having a post-traumatic episode.”

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“Where are you goin’?” the Deputy called after her.

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She clapped back. “To solve this case!”

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“Ms. Scully! It’s a storm out there!”

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He was ignored.

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She went downstairs, immediately going to the counter. “Where’s Imogen?”

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“The hell’s goin’ on? Who flooded my Inn!” The old owner exclaimed.

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“Imogen left Mrs. Pearson’s house two hours ago. I need to know where she is,” Scully insisted.

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“She probably went home.”

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Scully pulled out her badge. “Where is home?”

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Imogen’s house was small, but it was exactly where the old man said it would be. A yellow house with a wire fence and a relatively unkept garden. The wind was picking up, the rain pouring harder now. Scully thought she could hear thunder. This wasn’t good. She knocked. No answer. Something in Scully’s gut burned. She knocked again, nothing. Turning the door handle, she realized it was open.

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“Imogen?” she called into the empty home. Turning on the light, she stepped into the quaint living room. It was a girlish place, painted with pinks and pastels. She clearly lived alone. Bookshelves were everywhere. Scully started to panic. “Imogen...”

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“Dana?”

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Scully thought she would lose all her air.

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Imogen stepped out from the rain, taking off a hood. “What are you doing in my house?”

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Scully looked at her, unable to say what she needed to say. Her mind was caught up in too many things to communicate, so she simply looked at Imogen with desperation.

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Imogen’s face fell. “Oh no.”

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“You must have dealt with these kinds of situations before,” Imogen sat Scully down on her couch. Scully’s rain jacket dripped on the cushions. “Considering what you do.”

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She was paralyzed. “Yes. Many times.”

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“I’m sure Agent Mulder is prepared for whatever it is. With or without a gun.” Scully did not give a reassuring response. Imogen studied her. “Dana, what’s wrong?” She insisted more than asked.

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Scully’s lids closed as a pressure grew between her brows. “They’re not just murders.” Her tongue kept getting caught in her throat, making it impossible to get her words out. “They’re n—” She cleared her throat. Her eyes opened again as she shook her head. “I just have to find him.” With one deep breath, she looked the woman dead in the eyes. “I need your help, Imogen.”

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Imogen stared at Scully. “I mean, I’ll do what I can. But I can’t promise much.” 

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“Mulder thought,” Scully explained once she got her bearings. “You somehow helped the bereaved. That you gave them...psychic visions that showed them where the bodies were located. For closure. He believed you may be doing it subconsciously to raise the positive energy around you and that if you tapped into this ability, you could possibly lead us to the killer.”

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She gave a little bewildered smile. “You don’t believe that, do you?”

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“Not really,” Scully admitted. “But I don’t know what else to do. I can’t think. My mind is blank. You’re the only lead I have. And I can’t...”

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“I can’t give people visions.”

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“What you did for Emma and Mrs. Pearson. I need you to do that for me.”

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Imogen moved away, now overwhelmed. “I didn’t do anything, Dana. I just listened. They talked about their feelings and I sat there.” She exhaled. “We could do that, but I don’t think it’s going to help.”

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Scully closed her eyes again. “I’m sorry,” she said standing to her feet. “I’m sorry to bother you. You’re right. This is a waste of time. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

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“Hey, it’s okay.” She took Scully’s hand, stroking it with her thumb. “No matter what happens, Dana, you’re going to be okay.”

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Scully smiled.

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“I’ll help you search in the morning.”

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“I would appreciate that.”

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Scully left, but as she stepped outside, and the door closed behind her, she realized she forgot her coat. She knocked on the door, the rain was pouring now. The wind howling. Soon lightning would strike, and thunder would roar. She didn’t have much time.

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“Imogen!”

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She did not have time to wait. She opened the door, which was unlocked. But as she entered the home, a cool chill entered with her.

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The lights had gone out. They were not turning on.

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“Imogen?” Scully looked around, but the woman was nowhere to be found. She stepped onto the floor, her shoes slipping on a wet puddle. A flash of lightning illuminated the room. The puddles were the size of footprints, trailing from the couch to an open window on the side wall. Scully went to it, holding her flashlight. There was something crumpled on the floor there. It looked to be made of cloth. Scully picked it up. It was a dress. Imogen’s dress that she had been wearing that day. Without thinking, she brought the cloth to her nose, inhaling the aroma. Salt.

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The dress fell to the floor along with the flashlight.

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No.

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She stepped backwards, her fingers moving through her hair. Everything around her started to blur. Imogen. It was Imogen. How could she not have seen it? The coffee...there must have been something in the coffee. Her imagination was running wild now, like the floodgates opening and drowning every other thought. Her breath was short. Mulder must have known. He must have secretly suspected she...

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Mulder.

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There was no time for this. She couldn’t feel sorry for herself. There must have been a clue around there, something that could help her find him. She searched and searched, her memory as well as the house. She thought back through their conversations.

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Moby Dick.

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Poetry. 

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_I’m going to have to start using my own words. _

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_Pray heaven that the inside of my mind may not be exposed_

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_ Virginia Woolf. _

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_ Virginia Woolf... _

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Scully ran to the bookshelf by the couch, pulling off books that were not in alphabetical order for her convivence. _Come on..._it had to be a clue. It had to be. There was Milton and Butler, and Dickinson, and Austen. Hemingway, Steinbeck, Shelley. Finally, she found it. Woolf.

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_Virginia Woolf, _she read._ To the Lighthouse. _

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Scully was breathless. “The lighthouse.”

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“Sorry, we ain’t got one of those.” The Reverend said when they met up again.

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Scully was about to explode. “Not even an old abandoned one? It doesn’t matter if it’s operational.”

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“Our only one got torn down in 1875. No one knows where its ruins are.”

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Her face sank.

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“Only other is Solomon’s Lump but it’s unmanned, and you can’t get out there in this weather.” He pointed out to the horizon, a small light shone in the distance. 

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But Scully’s eyes were dogged on it. “Get me a boat.”

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The Deputy shook his head. “You lost it, lady? It’s a squall out there. We oughtta wait till morning.”

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“There’ s no time for that!” she spat.

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The Reverend approached. “I suggest you take some time to cool off, Ms. Scully.”

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She glared at him. “_Agent_ Scully. And unless you do as I say you will have a federal agent’s blood on your hands. And believe me, Reverend, you do not want that. Now. Get me a goddamn boat.”

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Water poured in buckets as the three braved the storm in a borrowed charter boat to the lighthouse, which was not on an island but rather stuck out of the water like a buoy. This lighthouse had been unmanned since 1950. This made Scully even more certain of her hunch. The deputy went first, then Scully, then the Reverend. They climbed up the ladder leading to the platform where the tower was. It was near impossible to see through the sheet of rainfall, thunder and lightning crashed all around them. It wasn’t a wise decision to be out there at all, but Scully knew there was no choice. She couldn’t afford to wait three days to find her partner’s dead body washed up on shore.

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After a few minutes of searching, the Deputy found her. “Uh...Ms. Scully I mean...Agent.”

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“Did you find him?” She couldn’t hold back her desperation.

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“N-no,” the poor man was taken aback. “But, uh, you’re gonna wanna come see this.”

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The Deputy had found an access point to the lower portion of the tower. They moved down more ladders, their flashlights the only illumination in the place. They reached the bottom, salt water rising an inch off the floor. Scully’s stomach churned. Her flashlight caught a chair, large and metal, stained sanguine with dried blood. As they explored more, they found other things. Things that looked like surgeon’s tools bloodied, rusted on the ends and never cleaned. Needles and syringes, also uncleaned, filled with some clear liquid. The Deputy shook his foot, a crab crawling on it. Scully reached her hand down into the water, shining her light on it. She scooped up two or three blue crabs, still alive.

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“Agent.” The Reverend had made his way down. He kicked over a pile of crabs that were feeding on a decaying body. “It’s Pearson.”

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“Dear Jesus,” The Deputy was about to throw up.

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“She didn’t finish the job. She usually sends the bodies back to shore.” Scully studied the body. “It seems she had a higher priority.”

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“You still think a _she_ did all this!” The Deputy whined.

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Scully further ignored him. “We need to find Agent Mulder.”

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“Not to be of offense, but I’m pretty sure your partner’s already gone to meet his maker,” the Deputy said.

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“I disagree.” Scully went to the chair. She tried to swallow her feelings and keep things professional. “There’s fresh blood here. Imogen takes her time.”

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“Imogen?” The Reverend was astonished. “Now hold on, Agent. That’s a hefty accusation, there.”

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Scully felt along the floor, pulling up a long piece of cloth. She held it away from her as though it were a snake. As she held his tie out, she could hear Mulder in her head making some joke about how this must have been a ‘black tie event.’ She felt the base rocking back and forth, though she could not tell if it was panic or sea sickness that made her nauseous.

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“We gotta head back, Ms. Scully. The storm’s gonna strand us.”

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She moved past him, going back up the ladder. The men followed her not far behind. The wind almost knocked her over, blustering hard against her. She ran to the railing. The black waves crashed against the base of the lighthouse turning white as the lightning struck. Something was floating out there, shown only when the light from the lamp passed over it.

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“Reverend!” She called back to him, pointing out there. “That look like a crab boat to you?!”

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“It’s one’a ours for sure!” He shouted over the tempest.

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“Could be Pearson’s!”

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“Could be!”

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Scully moved away from the railing. She and the gentlemen scaled down the lighthouse back to the boat. They took it out to where they thought they could see the other, unanchored and rising and falling against the waves. Scully had her life jacket on, but open. When they got close enough, she told the others she was going to try to board the ship. They tried to talk her out of it, but there was a tunnel vision preventing her from making any kind of logical decisions at this point. She couldn’t describe how, she just knew. She knew she had to get on that boat. That was where she would find Mulder. She grabbed the life preserver, tying the other end to their vessel in a tight knot. The Reverend manned the boat while the Deputy kept watch as Scully jumped onto Pearson’s bow.

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When she was safely on, she signaled the others. Letting go of the preserver, she pulled out her gun. The floor was dark, wet and slippery. Her foot caught on a crab net at least three times. She moved slowly around, looking for signs of life.

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“Mulder?”

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Suddenly, something moved. It slowly arched upward, then down. Pulsing at the stern of the boat. It was trying to move, but having a difficult time doing so. She called out for her partner again. The figure moaned loud enough for her to hear over the chaos. She took a few cautious steps in its direction, preparing her weapon. But just as she was about to lower her guard, a darker figure cast its shadow over the first.

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“Freeze! FBI!” Scully shouted, pointing her gun at the thing that was rising from the darkness. It didn’t listen. “It’s over, Imogen! Let him go!” But the creature that looked up at her was not Imogen. It couldn’t have been. Its eyes were black as night, its skin cracked like broken porcelain. Its hair was ragged and fell over its face. Its fingers were long, nails sharpened. Its eyes fastened themselves to her. And Scully couldn’t stop staring, petrified with fear. “W-what...what are you?”

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A wave came then, crashing over the stern. The creature disappeared with its catch, arching itself with the wave and dissolving into the sea.

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“No!!”

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She stripped off her life vest and put the safety on her weapon, dropping it to the floor. Without hesitation, she dove off the edge of the boat into the waves. She couldn’t see clearly but swam deeper and deeper until finally a light landed on her, staying there long enough for her to see. The creature was nowhere to be found. Instead, a man’s silhouette came into view. His arms could not move more than a little as he weakly tried to untie himself from the ropes that kept him bound. Scully pulled him by the arms, swimming up to the surface.

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A light and life preserver were waiting for her there.

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After they were pulled safely back onto the Reverend’s boat, Scully used his knife to free her partner’s mouth from its gag. Water spilled out as he choked out as much as he could. When he finally caught his breath, still delirious, he looked at her with blood-shot eyes.

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“Looks like your test worked.”

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Scully collapsed next to him on her back, letting the rain wash away everything.

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The hospital in Crisfield was of the smaller variety with brick walls and classic New England architecture. Mulder said he did not want to go to the hospital claiming nothing happened to warrant it. But Scully insisted, and he did not want to cause her any more trouble. They let her do his examination, which he was appreciative of because it was of an uncomfortable variety.

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“You know, this isn’t exactly how I imagined this moment between us,” he chimed cheekily in his hospital gown.

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She jeered at him. “Take what you can get.” She finished the exam with very little conversation. “Well, you seem okay. Nothing broken, nothing...bruised.”

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“I told you, Scully. It didn’t come to that.”

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“Mulder, I think we ought to hand this case over to the Reverend. You and I have done all we can do at this point. There’s no reason for us to stay any longer. I’ll call Skinner and send the report.”

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Mulder was confused. “She’s coming back.”

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“Imogen is dead,” Scully told him. “There is absolutely no way she survived that storm. They’ve searched all over that area and have found no trace of her.”

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“Of course, they didn’t. She lives in the sea.”

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Scully glared at him. “Mulder, I need you to take this seriously.”

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“When do I not take things seriously?”

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“What did she do? Turn into sea foam?”

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Mulder’s stare was unwavering. “She’s coming back, Scully.”

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She leaned on his bed, sternly. “Imogen is not a mermaid. She is not a _siren_. She is psychotic.”

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His lips pursed. “I don’t think so.”

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Scully was beguiled. “You don’t _think so?!_ She tried to—” She couldn’t finish her sentence. “I am not playing this game with you.”

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“You saw her too. Why are you acting like you didn’t?”

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She grunted. “I don’t know what I saw.”

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“A creature. You saw a creature.”

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“It was dark. I was scared.”

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“You saw what I saw!” 

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“Mulder, you were drugged. I examined the puncture holes myself. Whatever you think you saw was a hallucination and nothing more.”

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“Drugged with what?” He waited patiently. “You didn’t find a single drug in my system or in any of the victims’, or at the scene of the crime, or in her house. Nothing in the water. Nothing in the salt. You know why? Because it wasn’t poison, it was magic. It’s the salt. It’s her talisman. She puts it in the coffee. That’s why it’s not as bitter.” He looked into her eyes for a sign, but it didn’t come. “Salt is known to neutralize bitterness. Actually, it was a popular trend in Northern Scandinavian countries, as well as Turkey and—”

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“Mulder. It’s over. You’re done.”

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“For crying— nothing happened!!” 

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Scully approached his bedside. She leaned right into his face. “We are going back to Washington,” she declared. “This case is closed.”

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It took a while, but Mulder was finally able to sleep. When he awoke, it was still dark outside, approximately three in the morning, he supposed. He gazed over at the chair by the window, where Scully had insisted on spending the night. Her small body was slumped over the chair, craning her neck. As he turned his head, he felt the dampness of his pillow. It wasn’t sweat, or drool. It was water. He felt the blanket under him, which was also wet. No, everything was sodden. He reached behind him, beneath his pillow. The hospital had taken his gun. He picked up his phone, pressing the buttons. It was also soaked to the wiring. He dropped it.

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“She cut out her tongue,” a voice said.

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Mulder’s attention darted to the window. A woman stood there, leaning against the sill, looking at Scully. Not with malicious intent, just with curiosity. Her cheek lay upon her hand.

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“The little mermaid,” she continued. “She gave her tongue to a witch to be with a man who only loved an ideal she could not achieve. And for her crime, was sentenced to death. Not exactly a good bedtime story, is it?”

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“Not exactly,” he said back.

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“She won’t wake up,” Imogen explained. “Not until the contract is fulfilled. You must feel special, Fox Mulder,” she said as she moved from the window. “I came all this way to get you.”

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“I’m flattered,” he with a voice too calm for his situation. “Only you and I both know this has nothing to do with me.” He eyed Scully. “This is for her. Isn’t it?”

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Imogen sat on the windowsill.

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“You know, don’t you?” he continued. “You know about us. What we do. What she’s been through. You’ve seen it all.”

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Imogen stepped slowly around the bed as she listened to his final statements, as though she were on the witness stand.

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“So, you know...I’m probably the worst thing to ever happen to her.” Mulder said this plainly. “That’s why you’re here.”

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Her lips twitched upward. “There’s a first.” She walked to the intravenous tube in his right arm.

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“Nathan Miller,” he stated. “Three allegations of sexual misconduct, one unreported account of physical assault, no convictions.” She stopped. “Earl Collins...wouldn’t leave his wife despite having continual extra-marital relations with one Bridgett Marshall, who was desperately waiting for him.” He inhaled. “Emma Hartigan. Attached at the hip to her brother. Afraid of what would happen when he left her to create a family of his own.” Finally, he sat up. “Now, Mrs. Pearson, that one almost got me. See, every other body came back, but Mr. Pearson, his didn’t.”

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Imogen just listened.

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“That’s because Mrs. Pearson wasn’t afraid of losing her husband to another woman. She was afraid of losing him to the sea. And she did. You made sure of that.” He smirked. “I was right about you. You’re an empath alright, only it isn’t negative feelings of grief you’re trying to clear. It’s ignorance. Ignorance of men who have power and abuse it, and ignorance of women who let them.”

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She sighed. “Is it worth it?” she asked. “Being right? Is it worth dying for?”

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“I think the truth is.”

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She gave him an amused look.

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“You think Scully would be a whole lot better off without me,” he said plainly. “And you’re definitely right about that.” He looked straight into her eyes without flinching. “But you’re also wrong. Scully doesn’t stay for me. She wants answers. She wants the truth. And when she finally leaves, I hope to god she doesn’t think twice about it. I need her a lot more than she needs me.”

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“You think they see you as equals?”

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“No, but I’d like to be,” he stated. “I think I should get at least a little credit for that.”

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“You want credit for basic human decency?” She laughed at him. She turned her back, pacing to the wall opposite Mulder’s hospital bed.

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“You made all their fears come true,” Mulder said. “Infidelity, loneliness, lack of closure, dependency. You didn’t give them visions. You read their minds. You’re doing it now, aren’t you?”

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“Fear and desire are often one in the same.” Imogen reached beneath her dress, pulling out a blood-stained rope she had tied around her waist. Then a second. “The imagination on that woman,” she said as she prepared. “The things she’s seen. The experiences she could pull from and yet...she’s the same as the others.” There was a darkness now in her voice. “At the end of the day, it’s always the same. Variants on a similar theme.” She stripped off her dress leaving only the white slip beneath it. “It’s always in the back of a woman’s mind, whether she realizes it or not. Men. Men never see it coming.” She shook her head. “This world...it’s even taken our creativity.”

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She approached the bed. Mulder stiffened.

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“You make men fear what women fear every day.”

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“You’re a part of that, you know. Whether you want to be or not. You can sit here and perform what you think is justice, but at the end of the day, you can never be more than what you are. That’s the truth, Fox.”

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He soured. “Mulder.” 

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He winced as he felt a needle jam into his arm, his body suddenly becoming weak as the fluid entered his body. The smell of salt came through his nose. She was on top of him now. He wasn’t sure how she got there. Her fingers gripped his hair, yanking his head back onto the pillow.

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“I know.”

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She stayed there until he was completely immobile, using a sailor’s knot to tie him to the bed.

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“Scully,” he called. No answer. “You can wake up now, Scully! Scully!!” But she didn’t stir. “Scully...”

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The wind howled. A wet hand slid up from beneath his hospital gown to his chest, which was rapidly moving up and down. A creature with black eyes looked down at him. A palm clasped over his mouth, its long fingers and nails stretching across his face.

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“_Why are you trembling_?” a feminine voice cooed, close enough to his ear where he could feel the breath. It moved from the lobe down his spine to the base. “_You should be enjoying this_.”

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Scully twitched, turning over and muttering something. But still she did not wake up.

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His throat kept clamping and opening, the smell of seawater now in every crevice. He couldn’t speak. Water spilled from out of his throat like a hose. He coughed it out as much as he could, but it was coming at a rate he could not control. He was lulled now by the sound of the wind, which was serenading him to his final rest. Words that could not previously present themselves, now sang in his ear clear as day. He could feel them with his whole body. Beautiful. Desirable. Repulsive. Addicting.

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_Down, down you go_

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_ Beneath the waves and timber low_

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_ White foam dances in your hair_

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_ Till you see there’s nothing there _

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He could feel her fingers stroke his head, her song the only thing he was able to hear. Suddenly, her voice was joined by a chorus. Female voices in haunting harmony moved around him like ghosts. He coughed out more salt water. Images flew through his mind. Past and present, real and imaginary.

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_Voices call you to shore_

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_ The world you knew is no more_

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_ Sea turns to river_

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_ River to gate_

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_ Someone is waiting_

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_ To seal your—_

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The music stopped.

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Mulder opened his eyes but could not hold them wide. Imogen’s eyes were back to their human-like appearance as she looked down at his. She just stared at him, frozen in shock. Her thumb tilted his chin upward. A single tear involuntarily fell from her face onto his chest.

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“What is she thinking?” he got out despite the horse of his throat. He got no reply. She just gazed at him. “Tell me what she’s thinking.”

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Scully’s eyes fluttered open. She reached down, feeling the blouse she had fallen asleep in. It was damp along with the rest of her clothes. She sat scrambled to an upright position. Everything in the room was soaked, the window wide open. There was water over the floor. It smelled of the ocean. Her attention went straight to the bed. Scully couldn’t breathe as she slowly approached where her partner lay perfectly still. His arms were tied with bloody rope. As she approached him, her body shook. He was pale, his eyes slightly open, not looking at anything. Her face inverted, and her throat clamped shut. Reaching out her hand, she stroked his face with her thumb.

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He inhaled, coughing out the water that had been stuck in his throat. Hacking and heaving onto the bed. She cupped her hand beneath his head to help him. He didn’t look at her. His body was in shock.

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He did manage to say one thing. “She let me go.”

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Scully’s knees buckled, no longer able to hold her weight. She fell by the bedside, her hands still gripped to the end. Her head fell as she finally found her breath again.

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Scully pinched her nose. She couldn’t bring herself to look up, or down, or anywhere. Mulder sat quietly in his bed, allowing what he told her to sink in.

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“She told you this?” she finally spoke up.

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“She didn’t deny it.”

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Scully sat up, finally looking at him. It was difficult though. The color was still mostly drained from his face. “What made you come to that conclusion?”

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Mulder didn’t know how to answer.

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Suddenly, something clicked. “Moby Dick,” she whispered.

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“What?”

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“When we met,” Scully explained, embarrassed. “She quoted Moby Dick. That wasn’t happenstance, was it? She did something to me. She read my mind.”

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“I don’t think she was trying to manipulate you.”

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“I’m such an idiot,” she heaved. “I barely knew her, and yet I feel...betrayed somehow. I thought we had a connection. I guess we did. Just...it wasn’t what I thought.” She wiped her eye.

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He sat himself up to be closer to her. “She would’ve gone through with it. I don’t think there was anything morally in her mind that would have prevented her. But she didn’t. Something stopped her. Something about you. Something that wasn’t a factor before.”

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Scully puffed. “You mean like love?” she ragged with a classic roll of the eyes.

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But Mulder stayed cold and shook his head. “Emma loved her brother. Mrs. Pearson adored her husband. She killed them without a second thought.”

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Her expression melted. “What, then?”

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“I don’t know,” he admitted as his eyes caught the rain-splattered window. “But whatever it was, it was more powerful than love.”

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Fox Mulder stumbled into his apartment, finally back. He couldn’t count how many times he had done this. Scully had offered to walk him back, but he didn’t need to be escorted. He was perfectly capable of finding his own way home. She worried too much. It wasn’t like anything happened. He collapsed onto the couch, not even bothering to lock the door. Stripping off his tie, he unbuttoned the top of his shirt, reaching his hand tenderly around his neck. Another button. Another. His body turned, his nose pressing into the cushions on the side of the couch, his front in parallel. They smelled old and worn out. He closed his eyes, but immediately opened them. He sniffed. Salt. Rocketing up, he left the couch, his tie still lying on the floor.

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His feet brought him to the bathroom where he saw a small tube of mouthwash that he never used sitting on the toilet. Grabbing it, he brought a cup of it in his mouth, sloshing around the taste of salt that was still sticking on his tongue. The spit jutted out into the sink, blue like the ocean on a Caribbean cruise pamphlet. He licked his teeth. Salt. He rubbed his neck again, yanking off his shirt from the top instead of unbuttoning it. Palms pressed against the sink, shoulder blades crushed together. He sniffed.

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The water of the shower was cold. He turned the dial. A bit colder. A bit more. Finally, he rotated the temperature all the way to the right, feeling the drizzle cascade over him. His hair fell over his face. He didn’t think about anything, just stared at the tile, feeling the fresh water wash away the salt. The showers at the hospital must have been tainted, he thought, as he still felt as though he were freshly dragged out of the raging Atlantic. He spit again into the drain. Still blue. Still salty, but not as bad. His fingers moved through the follicles of his thick hair, which he held cupped in his palm for a solid minute before releasing it. He attacked the bar of soap, scrubbing every inch of himself and letting the water take it away. The bar was a fourth gone by the time he set it down. His nose kissed the tile wall. The high screeching of the shower whistled like the wind.

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Mulder lay in his bed, covers half over him, with his wet towel sprawled onto the floor instead of properly hung to dry. His land line flashed beside him. He closed his eyes again, not wanting to look above. When he could not settle himself, he rolled over, staring at the phone. He sat up. His body moved slow as he picked up the line. His fingers slowly pressed the buttons of a familiar number. The phone’s receiver was held in front of Mulder’s face. He did not bring it to his ear.

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A woman answered. An older woman. A woman he knew as well as any other.

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“Hello?”

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He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He closed it.

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“Hello? ...Fox, is that you?”

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The tone sounded as Mulder’s thumb pressed hard on the corner button, hanging up. Rubbing his eyes, he dropped the phone on the bed. Forehead, hair, scalp, neck, his hands ran through them.

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He stood up.

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The bathroom door slammed shut.

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The sound of running water was heard throughout the apartment, echoing in accordance with the rain.

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Dana’s fingers hovered over the keys. It was a long while before she began to write her report:

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_In the wake of fear, we feel it to be a part of us. Natural in its arousal as well as its intention. The primal aspect of our biology that protects us. That we hold onto to keep us in line with what we know to be in our best interest. We forget how fear is often manufactured, cultivated and nurtured to keep us from straying from our pre-painted lines. We are taught that the unknown is to be feared, from myths and horror stories. And this terror is made to multiply. From this fear, true monsters can often rise to the surface. But what creates these monsters? Is it the structures in place that ostracize otherness, the need to control its existence, that creates such beings? Or is it the structures themselves who are the real monsters? Does society write the history of fear, and if so do we have any chance in re-sculpting it? _

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_ Is the myth of woman rewritable? _

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She looked at her phone for a while, then back to the screen. 

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_ The myth that states that which does not have power can only gain it by taking it away from another, a social dogma that keeps woman an outlier or a vampire of man’s fragile sovereignty. A monstrous feminine. Divisions and lines drawn in the sand between male and female to produce the illusion of difference both to protect and to destroy. Is our perceived equality only afforded to us through the relinquishing of power, or is there a way for us to seize it without falling victim to it? I do not know the answer. We wait for the truth. We hold onto tradition. We pray for change. We tell the same story with new words. Hopefully, one day, this violence will end. _

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_And these monsters that become us will sink back into the sea. _

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**And what is left but empty tears**

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**For the loss of wasteful years**

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**Wait, oh Mortal, your time will come**

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**To tread the waters alone**

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**Then another will sing your mournful tone.**

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Created by: Chris Carter

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Written by: OfficiallyWrong 

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**Author's Note:**

>   
**Factual inconsistencies**
> 
> Reverend Rick Edmund was the pastor for all three churches in the villages of Smith Island. He was succeeded in 2017. The depiction of the Reverend in this story is not meant to represent him or any real persons who may have pastored before him. The religious institutions of Smith Island are foundational to the community and this story is not meant to disrespect them or their traditions. From what I understand, Edmund began his pastoral practice on the island in the year 2000, which is when the 7th season of The X-Files was made. I do not know who had the job before him. 
> 
> Both the Deputy and Reverend are nameless to avoid associations with any real persons. 
> 
> The Inn in Ewell was erected in 2012. The Big Blue Anchor is a fictional Inn and Sand Dollar Ln. is a fictional street. 
> 
> The Smith Island cake, however, is very real. It has its own entry on the Wikipedia page. So that’s good news. 
> 
> I do not know what the inside of Solomon’s Lump Lighthouse looks like. I have clearly not been there. I know it has been unmanned for quite a long time. 
> 
> There was very little information I could find on the Island before the year 2000, such as population, tourism, even building information on the churches. Population dropped to 364 for the whole island.  
https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/politics/2002/12/25/clinging-to-faith-on-smith-island/aadb924e-96ba-4a1e-bb93-799ca508fbcc/ 
> 
> I did my best with the accent. They say it’s somewhere between southern and an English, some say Cornish, brogue. I read many articles and took what I know of both of these speech patterns to create the accent, but if I butchered it I apologize.
> 
> Extras: Ghostbusters reference (c) Ivan Reitman (1984)
> 
> Featuring “Moby Dick” by Herman Melville written in 1851 and “To the Lighthouse” by Virginia Woolf written in 1927.
> 
> LIKE THIS STORY AND WANT TO KNOW MORE ABOUT ME? 
> 
> "Imogen" is the first story in a project I call "critical fiction." The project is an experiment that uses analytical texts to formulate central arguments with fan fiction as its primary mode of expression instead of the traditional essay. All future "critical fiction" will be posted on my profile "OfficiallyWrong". Some fictions will come with companion essays. You don't have to read it to enjoy the stories! I promise. 
> 
> I run the website www.readingitwrong.com, a fandom site/podcast, featuring content on shipping, fiction, community and more. So if you're into fandom culture, you might think it's pretty cool. (Heads up: It does NOT monetize the fiction on this account.)


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